


Heat Wave

by moon_crater



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Curie discovers her friends are hot oh no, F/F, F/M, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 03:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10376703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_crater/pseuds/moon_crater
Summary: Curie’s new body has all sorts of fascinating functions and sensations to explore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the [New Fallout Kink Meme](http://newfalloutkink.livejournal.com). The [prompt](http://newfalloutkink.livejournal.com/1149.html?thread=329085#t329085):
> 
> _Curie gets really horny for the first time ever and she decides to indulge the urge to masturbate. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't quite know how to go about the whole thing._
> 
> This is quite heavy on the "getting horny" part of the prompt. Whoopsie. It also contains brief alcohol use and mild voyeurism. (Curie is overheard.)

When a midday sun blazed high in the sky, Curie woke, sticking to the sheets.

A curious sensation, sweat. Not unpleasant, under ordinary circumstances, but strange. Different. Interesting. Once she had become accustomed to it, and successfully dismissed the irrational fearful thought that she might rust, she even enjoyed it. Like everything else that came with her new body and its marvel of countless biological functions, she reveled in its discovery and intricacies as only a scientist could.

But not now. Curie peeled the damp top sheet away from her skin and knew only visceral disgust. Also a new feeling! And worth studying, when she ceased being so hot she couldn’t think. That, itself, was also worth cataloging—humans had difficulty reasoning when overheated! Fascinating to experience firsthand!—but that was as far as the thought got before it fizzled away. Evaporated, like water dropped on scalding blacktop.

The shattered glass thermometer beside the front door told her nothing of any use. The humidity, similarly unmeasured, hung heavy in the air and embraced her like an eager friend when she stepped outside.

“Miss Curie!” Codsworth bobbed in the yard in front of the house, hedge clippers whirring busily.

“Good morning, Monsieur Codsworth.”

“It is a _miserable_ morning,” he replied, weaving toward her with concern. “Ninety- _seven_ degrees, if one can believe.”

“Ah, yes. That is considerably warmer than the average for this time of year, is it not?” Such meteorological data had been a part of her long-ago programming, but she had never _felt_ a difference in temperature before. Slight fluctuations, certainly, in the weeks since getting her new body, but never to such an extreme.

“Indeed, miss. Please, do keep to the shade today, and try to stay hydrated.” One metal arm extended toward her, holding a bottle of water.

“Why, thank you, Monsieur Codsworth, but that is not necessary. I will get my water from the pump. _Adieu_!”

The house Madame selected as Curie’s sat near the river that separated Sanctuary from the Outside. Conveniently placed for her purposes, as that was also where Madame saw fit to place the many water pumps necessary for their community.

Curie met no one on the short walk. This time of day, the other residents congregated in the middle of town—picking vegetables, making meals, repairing things. Being communal, as humans were wont to do when they came together for a common purpose.

But the pumps themselves were not deserted when she reached them. She rounded the house at the end of the road, looked down to the water’s edge, and stopped.

“Morning,” Preston said, levering the water pump in his hand to fill the bucket beneath the spout. Preston, stripped to the waist, skin gleaming with sweat in the sunshine. Muscles and tendons she knew the clinical names for flexing, working as she knew they should to accomplish his task.

And, mon dieu, he did not have his hat! Why should that be so scandalizing?

Her voice did not come. Peculiar.

She fixed her gaze elsewhere as she edged toward the pumps, looking to the sunlight glinting on the water, and at last found words. “Good morning, Monsieur Garvey.”

“Let me,” he said, when she reached for the pump, “No sense in both of us getting sweatier.”

“That is most generous of you.” He bent in front of her, and her eyes traced the line of his spine, the curve of his shoulder blades. A tingling warmth from the middle of her chest crept up the column of her throat and closed around it. Again, she looked away, and could not understand why.

Ridiculous! Had she not already studied human anatomy in every conceivable situation? Her mind full of diagrams and labels and endless lists of names for every piece of bone and sinew a body had to offer?

“It is quite hot today, no?” she said, more for the sake of having something to say than for starting a conversation.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“You are teasing me, Monsieur Garvey.”

He looked up at her and smiled shyly. “Only a little.”

Preston had a way of looking at a person indirectly, with his head angled down and his eyes screened by his impractically long lashes, which made her wish to…

To…

Why, she was uncertain _what_ she felt she must do! Could there be a fault in her programming? Had Dr. Collins neglected to close a bracket in her code, or was the transfer to this new body less complete than it had seemed? She must consult with Monsieur Valentine. Even if he could not help her, at least he would not distract her with the fluttering of eyelashes.

When the pump produced a steady stream instead of a faint trickle, she stuck her hands under the water and drank. When she could hold no more, she splashed as much as she could stand on her face. The cold brought relief, though it made her head ache. But anything was better than not being able to think. “Thank you.”

The serene clarity did not last. The fog encroached again when Preston stood, leaning on the water pump. The clenching in her throat coiled tighter as she watched a drop of perspiration snake between his pectoral muscles, down along the ridges of his abdomen, until it disappeared beneath his belt.

Perhaps if she waded into the river itself?

Preston abandoned the pump and took up the buckets he’d been filling before she came along. His arms strained with the weight of one in each hand. “See you later.”

Oh. She made a soft sound of surprise when he turned away. His shoulders were certainly broad.

How silly. She shook her head. They were no broader than usual. Why should a lack of covering matter to their perceived dimensions?

Her heart was beating rather more quickly than it should be, given that she had not be exerting herself. She must rest. She would go to the river. She would splash her face again, cool off…

But, much like the pumps, she wasn’t the only one with such plans. At the river bank, far away from where she encountered Preston, she found Piper. She knelt on the bank and held her head near the water, her hair soaked and full of soap.

“Hey, Curie.” Piper took a huge breath and dunked her head in the water. She swished it around to rinse the suds off, exposing the back of her graceful neck to view. What a strange thing to think. Could a neck be graceful? Why should she find it so? It was only a neck. A neck attached to a shapely back, in a thin tank top. And the shapely back flared into full hips, and strong, thick thighs in cut-off shorts...

A spray of water arced off Piper’s hair, glittering, when she emerged from the river and threw her head back. With her eyes closed, she turned her face to the sun as water trickled along the curves of her high cheekbones, along the sharp angle of her jaw, down the length of her throat. Droplets caught in her dark lashes and sparkled like clusters of diamonds in the light.

Curie blinked and clutched her chest. Her heart beat ever faster, insistently thumping beneath her palm. Oh. That...oh. Was this beauty?

Curie knew of art, though she’d never before had the ability to experience it the way a human did. Piper, in repose with the planes of her face in light and shadow and glittering water, looked like a painting. Then she opened her eyes, smiled brilliantly, and became so much more. The same warm _something_ that Preston created with his long lashes and shy smile bloomed in her chest, brighter than before. It threatened to overwhelm her.

“Good morning,” Curie’s voice wobbled, “Oh! I have just remembered—it is time for breakfast!”

She fled. This inability to think clearly was most distressing, and the associated physiological changes made it even more difficult to focus. Perhaps she could puzzle out their meaning if only she could get a moment’s rest from them! She must find Monsieur Valentine and ask him about the temperature’s strange effect on her circuits.

Alas! He was nowhere to be seen. In the middle of town, she found many others, but Nick Valentine was not among them. Preston, still distracting in his shirtlessness, helped two other settlers building something out of wood and steel. Others cooked and made repairs, with shirts unbuttoned and pants rolled up, because the heat was too much to bear otherwise.

Even Cait, on her hands and knees tending to their vegetable garden, had stripped herself of her leathers. She replaced them with something that qualified as little more than a brassiere. Curie stared, watching with fascination as her muscular arms worked carrots loose from the earth, and noticed things she never had before.

So many pale freckles were splashed along Cait’s back and shoulders! As numerous as stars in the night sky. What would it be like to trace lines between them and map their patterns beneath her fingertips? What constellations would emerge, and what would she name them? And how, she wondered with dizzying warmth rising from her toes to the top of her head, could she arrange such an encounter in order to study them?

Oh, this was getting her nowhere!

She turned, looking for escape. Instead, she slammed into MacCready.

“Whoa! Hey,” he said, and she barely heard him, because he caught her in his arms to keep her from falling. A gray cotton t-shirt, clinging to him with perspiration, cut across his biceps in a most distressing fashion. Why must his muscles bulge so! “You okay, Curie?”

“It is only the heat. I have never felt such heat!” she replied helplessly, pleading with her eyes that he should understand her distress. That there was more warmth than just outside and she didn’t know what to do with it. Oh, but he did not understand! And he could hardly relieve her of it when she didn’t understand it herself.

“It’s a hot one,” he agreed, and smiled at her. He had a smile that radiated confidence, and his gaze was quite direct, but it seemed to affect her in nearly the same way as Preston’s diffidence. And Piper’s sparkle. And Cait’s easy strength. And now she was sweating ever so much more than she had been, as if all four of her friends were pressing in around her, on all sides.

“Monsieur Garvey is not wearing a shirt, did you know?” she asked, still hoping to explain herself. “And Cait is wearing only a very tiny one.” She laid a hand across his forearm— _la vache_! But his extensor digitorum was firm! “You appear to be overheated, monsieur. Perhaps you should remove your clothing, as well?”

Her synthetic eyes were less precise than the sensors of her old mechanical body, but they were able to pick up signals that her human-like brain processed quite efficiently. She observed the dilation of his pupils, with the so interesting effect of causing the irises to appear a much darker blue than usual. And the flush of an increase in the flow of blood. This she understood. She had seen many of her new friends look this way, just before they began to touch each other, and to kiss, and to withdraw into their rooms for privacy.

“Maybe you’d better get into the shade,” he told her.

“Yes,” she said, rubbing her forehead, “yes, that may be best.”

And he escaped as quickly as she did.

In the shade of one of the rebuilt houses, she found Hancock. He lounged in a lawn chair under a large umbrella, languid with ease. A pair of sunglasses balanced over his eyes, hovering above his lack of nose. If he were to sit up straight, perhaps they would fall, but he seemed to have discovered the optimal position and did not intend to move.

“Morning, Curie,” he said with a lazy nod of the head that did not dislodge the glasses. “Like a beer?” He was surrounded by a great number of empty bottles, with several more standing within reach.

“I do not know. I have never had one.” It was potentially a very good idea, however, to consume as many cold beverages as possible. It was very important for a ghoul, who could not sweat, to lower his body temperature in whatever way he could, although water would be much more beneficial.

Hancock picked up one of the bottles and popped the cap off with his thumb. This, too, made her feel as if there was too much electrical current coursing through her internal wiring, and she did not know why.

She took the bottle, which was deliciously chilled. It must have just come from Madame’s Drinking Buddy robot. Without even taking a sip, she pressed the cold bottle to her cheek, and sighed with relief as the world began to feel that much sharper, as if she could almost _think_. And yet, her thoughts became no clearer. They remained cluttered with images—of muscles and freckles and lashes and smiles—that lingered like others never had.

Frustrated, she held the bottle to her chest instead, trying to still the beating of her heart, or at least cool the sparking like fireworks inside her. It did not help. In desperation, she opened two buttons of her shirt, and moved the bottle lower, all the way down to the pit of heat in her belly. Still, nothing, though the condensation felt wonderfully cool on her newly exposed skin on the way down.

Beside her, Hancock shifted, and moved his sunglasses so that he could look at her over the lenses. His eyes dipped down to her open buttons, then to the bottle, and bounced back up again. He seemed...perceptive, but of what, she was unsure.

“Feelin’ the heat, huh?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. Terribly.”

Curie gave a pained sigh and leaned against the house. She gave up on the chilled beer bottle as relief, and took a drink from it instead. A most bitter flavor, but cool, and that was all that mattered. One sip became many, until she drained the bottle dry and hiccuped.

“Adorable,” Hancock murmured with a sly smile, and sank back onto the lawn chair to replace his sunglasses.

His voice, used to flatter her, and his physical ease—the way he stretched himself like a contented cat, the way his hands moved over the chair's arms—slotted itself comfortably among the other mental images she could not dismiss.

Oh! She could stand it no longer; she had to be alone. She put the bottle down alongside all the others, excused herself and entered the house—one of many that had yet to be fully repaired and had no occupants to claim it.

Curie shut the door and slumped against it.

The air inside was hot and still, thick with dust motes dancing in the sunlight. But at least there was shade, and nothing undressed or wet or muscley to look at on the bare walls. If only she could banish the thoughts of such things so easily; but she could not leave her head and find an empty one as easily as she had an empty house.

There were so many sensations to parse. Curie focused on her breathing and realized how shallow it had become. She pressed her fingertips to her racing pulse. Took note of which parts of her body thrummed with increased circulation. Lastly, she turned to a framed picture, hanging askew on the wall, and studied herself in the glass. Flushed cheeks and dilated pupils greeted her.

“This is _arousal_!” she whispered to her reflection. How different to experience it than only to know its chemical processes! How exciting! The giddiness of scientific discovery blanketed everything else.

She yanked open the door without thinking, disturbing Hancock in his doze, and announced, “Monsieur Hancock! I am _aroused_!”

“Groovy,” he muttered, still drunkenly half-asleep.

She slammed the door shut again with a blush. That was not something people blurted out to each other. There were rules governing such topics in polite human society. In her exhilaration and slight inebriation, she had forgotten.

But how could she not be ecstatic at the realization? This explained everything. Of course she couldn’t think in this state! Human bodies were such fussy machines, their central processors could be disrupted by even the slightest change in temperature and imbalance of hormones—and now she shared that frailty.

Well, she certainly couldn’t continue on this way. Her body and brain were not designed for constant arousal, and she would get nothing done in such a condition. But there were biological processes built in that worked as release valves for such things, other chemicals that could counteract the ones already coursing through her. The question of how to obtain them, however…

She braced her back against the door to think. Sexual intercourse required a partner, which she did not have. And as she had only just discovered her own, she did not quite trust her proficiency with sexuality to bring another person into the equation. Besides, it was better to master arousal herself first—to better compare the differences between the experiences, of course.

Masturbation was the obvious alternative. Firm, insistent genital stimulation should be sufficient to reach orgasm, yes? With, perhaps, some focus on other erogenous zones? It could not be so very complicated.

She opened the remaining buttons of her shirt, then moved on to the fly on her jeans.

Nipples, clitoris, labia, vaginal opening; the nerves responded appropriately when she ran her fingertips over each of them experimentally in turn. She twisted her nipples like radio dials. She applied pressure to the clitoris, moved her fingers back and forth several times. Dipped a finger inside herself.

Curie frowned.

It was...not terrible, but it did not bring the instant relief she hoped.

Perhaps there was more to it than the physical component? She had not become aroused through touch, after all.

She closed her eyes and tried again.

Curie thought of Preston, the sweat curling in rivulets down his neck and into the hollow of his throat. The ridges of his abdomen and how they might feel beneath her hands. His dark eyes, fringed by long lashes, looking up at her as he moved down her body with purpose. As she did so, her nails traced a line from behind her ear down, down, down and circled one of her nipples.

She thought of Piper and the lovely shape of her. Imagined lying on the river bank with her, damp and sparkling from the water, with her hands buried in her hair and their thighs tangled together. To kiss Piper would be like the warmth of the sun. Curie's other hand curved along her side and slid lower, over the slope of her abdomen into her jeans.

Cait. She thought of Cait, and how anything they might have would be closer to a wrestling match than tenderness. Something about the idea of Cait’s hands, pinning her wrists to the ground above her head as they strained against each other, kissing and biting and scratching, made her gasp.

Curie’s knees buckled and she slid down the door, working her fingers along either side of her clit. And when had she started to clutch her breast so roughly?

MacCready would be sweet. He would touch, and hold, and caress, and whisper things that they would smile about in secret. And he would be confident, and gentle, he would not let her feel self-conscious about anything she did incorrectly. Curie bit her lip.

And Hancock… Her fingers moved furiously. She thought of Hancock’s thumb, how expertly he flipped the cap off the beer bottle—

“Oh?! Oh!”

* * *

She had no idea of the time when she breezed out of the house. The sun remained high and hot, though the air had become cooler and heavier with the promise of a coming storm. Curie didn’t care. She felt so relaxed, she could hardly be bothered about the weather. She stretched leisurely with her arms over her head and smiled in the sunshine.

This was simply wonderful. Now that she understood the process, she would no longer be hampered by this peculiar mental confusion or the physical discomfort. She would be free to devote herself to her intellectual pursuits. With, of course, occasional pauses like today’s, for the sake of her health.

“Have fun?” Hancock asked, sounding still quite drowsy.

Oh, dear. She had forgotten that he was so close by, and now she began to feel warm all over again at the thought that he must have heard her cry out. And just as she was thinking of his nimble fingers, too. It was not rational to think that he _knew_ what her thoughts had been, and yet her heart began to thud almost painfully within her ribs as she turned to face him.

And—oh, dear, he was naked. His shirt was gone, and his trousers, and, in fact, he was wearing nothing at all except his sunglasses, and the tricorn hat draped modestly over his genitals.

“Monsieur Hancock!” she gasped.

He smiled at her, slow and lazy, and raised his beer bottle in salute.

“Nice weather, ain’t it?”

Her heart was still pounding, but she found she did not mind so much. It was really rather interesting, but she did feel that she must try to be stern, so she placed her hands on her hips.

“Really, monsieur, must _everyone_ be so naked?”


End file.
